The Intercession

"Before you say it, one question occurs to me. You are dressed in
black; you are in mourning for Sir Cyril, your father, who is not even
buried. And yet you told me just now that you were paying a mere visit
of etiquette to my cousin Emmeline. Is it usual in Paris for ladies in
mourning to go out paying calls? But perhaps you had a special object
in calling on Emmeline."

"I had," she replied at once with dignity, "and I did not wish you to
know."

"What was it?"

"Really, Mr. Foster--"

"'Mr. Foster!'"

"Yes; I won't call you Carl any more. I have made a mistake, and it
is as well you should hear of it now. I can't love you. I have
misunderstood my feelings. What I feel for you is gratitude, not love.
I want you to forget me."

She was pale and restless.

"Rosa!" I exclaimed warningly.

"Yes," she continued urgently and feverishly, "forget me. I may seem
cruel, but it is best there should be no beating about the bush. I
can't love you."

"Rosa!" I repeated.

"Go back to London," she went on. "You have ambitions. Fulfil them.
Work at your profession. Above all, don't think of me. And always
remember that though I am very grateful to you, I cannot love
you--never!"